The Pursuit of Truth
by KCS
Summary: Haiti charity fic for the request of the aftermath of Plato's Stepchildren, specifically Spock trying to cope with his emotional violation and his near-uncontrollable anger over Parmen's actions towards Kirk. Threeshot. Nonslash triumvirate fic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: The Pursuit of Truth (taken from Spock's line in the episode about Plato seeking Truth), I of III  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy, Kirk, various  
**Rating**: T just to be on the safe side  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for _Plato's Stepchildren _and mentions of all the baggage that episode entailed  
**Word Count**: 2766 (this part)  
**Summary**: Long long long overdue Haiti charity fic for **raebb4ever**, with the prompt _A fanfic that focuses on the aftermath of the episode "Plato's Stepchildren," specifically on Spock trying to cope with his emotional violation and his near uncontrollable anger over Parmen's actions towards Kirk. Having McCoy be included would be a nice bonus. Bonding and emotional healing, yay! I would like specific interaction between Kirk and Spock._  
**Author's note**: The only excuses I can give for the delay on this are real life in general kicking me pretty hard, but mostly that I absolutely _hate _this episode with an indescribable passion. It actually makes me sick to my stomach to watch it, and so that's why I kept putting it off until last. Ha, go figure, that this plot bunny is the one that mutated into a three-part fic instead of a oneshot like I offered. :P  
**Further A/N, this part**: The Kirk and Spock interaction you asked for is definitely forthcoming, in Part 3; the bunny just insisted on McCoy sticking his medical nose in there for a while. Fluff is a-comin', I promise.

I'm aware this idea has been done before, though I've only read one story that wasn't slash; but hopefully I'm bringing a new twist on things.

* * *

He is just finishing the final psych exam on his own Head Nurse when the Code Gold comes through from Officers' Mess.

The incidents of three days ago have left them all more than just shaken up, himself included (only an idiot of a space physician would refuse to recognize psychological trauma in himself), despite his not being touched physically or mentally by the Platonians. He didn't sleep at all that first night, and when he saw Jim the next morning he was pretty sure the captain hadn't either. As for Spock…well, Lord only knows what Spock is doing to cope, and he knows better than the Vulcan himself that he isn't coping very darn _well_. It's been worse in some ways, better in others, for Christine and Nyota, though both women appear now to be in fine spirits and just passed their psych exams with flying colors this evening.

They had all scattered instantly upon beaming up from the planet three days ago, but he had purposely scheduled all their follow-up exams for the next morning to coincide with conversations that he knew needed to take place. The stricken look on Jim's face when he walked in and saw Lieutenant Uhura leaving Sickbay was enough to break a harder heart than even their resident Vulcan's; but their brilliant Communications Officer had only smiled sadly and, for the first and last time in their careers, given her captain a quick peck on the cheek as she walked by (he could have hugged the woman for removing that portion of the haunted look from the Captain's eyes).

And just like that, she and Jim were fine, and have been for three days now.

The Captain himself had passed his exams with his usual flying colors, but something still rings false in his mind as he thinks about Kirk's assurances that he is feeling no ill effects from the Platonians' torture. The kironide in Jim's blood is still pumping in full force, he knows that from the monitor he attached to the man's wrist, and will continue to do so for several days while it's being filtered from his system naturally. He told Jim to refrain from any unsupervised exertions for the sake of safety; but since the man appears to be controlling his ability perfectly well and honestly he can't find anything wrong with him on the surface or under, he was forced to dismiss Kirk with no more than a warning.

His Head Nurse has taken a little longer to cope, but some (awkward but kind of endearing, in that bizarre Vulcan way) attention from the First Officer over the last forty-eight hours has effectively smoothed out the wrinkles in that admittedly one-sided relationship, and Chapel too has been pronounced fit for duty, much to his relief. She's a darn good nurse, and he doesn't know what he'd do if she cracked under the memory of what had nearly happened.

Spock, unsurprisingly, insists that he still feels no effects from the kironide which is still in his blood in an undiluted state; his hybrid physiology doesn't allow the release of as much adrenaline and endorphins as humans (more's the pity), and as such the drug is slowly filtering out of his blood with no noticeable effects. When he'd run the psych exams on his CO, they had all come back perfectly normal, and now to all appearances their resident walking computer is currently (in his own words) perfectly functional.

Perfectly functional, possibly. Having come to terms with what had happened, not a chance in this universe (or in any parallel one). He knows for a fact that the Vulcan hasn't talked a bit to the captain about what happened on Platonius, and a blowup (or meltdown, as the case might be) is imminent – but how can he justify taking either or both of them off-duty when they know how to fool his machines well enough to give him no medical evidence? He very much doesn't appreciate being put yet again in the same position they _usually_ stick him in – just waiting around to pick up the pieces once the world explodes, and only hoping they don't do too much damage to themselves or anyone else before then.

At least Spock isn't avoiding Nurse Chapel (small favors) like he is the captain. Spock accompanied Christine on this last of the tests, in a rare but understandable gesture of companionship that the woman reluctantly has accepted as all she'll ever receive from him, and now is looking absently at a med-PADD which contains data over what M'Benga suggested could have been done to induce the drug's efficacy in the Vulcan's copper-based blood while planetside. The ward is quiet other than the therapeutic bickering going on between him and the hobgoblin, all's well that supposedly ends well, and he's just beginning to relax the tension in his shoulders with some neck exercises...

And then all hell breaks loose, as the emergency communications unit wails into life with a Code Gold from the Officers' Mess.

_Code Gold_ – a direct threat to the safety of the Captain. Any crewman or officer can vocally or manually initiate a Code Gold if he feels the captain's safety is compromised, and once initiated alarms automatically sound in Security, Sickbay, and the First Officer's quarters with the location of the threat.

Jim_. _

_Crap_.

Cursing under his breath, he snatches up a portable medikit and then bellows at the top of his lungs for Chapel to get the dickens back into the room and get details from Security before following with a med-team and proper equipment.

Spock, he looks up to see, or rather _not_ see, is already halfway down the corridor, the PADD discarded with a clatter on the nearest flat surface. He barely catches up with the Vulcan's long legs in the turbolift, where he skids inside just before the doors close.

"What the blue _blazes_ could happen in the Mess, of all places?" he demands of no one in particular when once he's caught his breath enough to stop wheezing. Ignoring Spock's I-would-have-no-idea-you-illogical-human eyebrow, he pounds the inter-comm as the Vulcan shakes his head in mutual incomprehension. "Officers' Mess, this is McCoy. Someone down there talk to me, what's happening?"

A moment of silence, and then a sudden burst of chaotic confusion. Something crashes in the background (what the heck was _that_?), and then Montgomery Scott's welcome voice fills the lift_. "Doctor, you'd best hurry; it's the Captain and I dinna know what's wrong with him, but – "_

The scratchy tinkle of plexiglass shattering causes both occupants of the lift to start, and blue eyes meet dark brown with a worried look. "Scotty, talk to me," he bellows, punching the comm button again.

_"Doctor,"_ this time it's Uhura's soft voice, thank the combined deities of several neighboring planets, and he breathes a small sigh of relief. Since she knows what went on while they were trapped on Platonius, maybe he'll get enough information now to prepare for whatever he's going to find when he gets down there. Going into a trauma situation is a hundred times easier when you know what you're dealing with instead of having to start from scratch, especially with someone as mule-stubborn as James T. Kirk. _"Doctor, he's panicking now; and some kind of psionic fallout is making chaos of the whole room –"_

He swears, and Spock casts him a slightly disapproving glare, though he's pretty sure it's more to cover up not-so-Vulcan concern than to convey disapproval. "The kironide," he breathes as the connections all fall into place, and slams a fist into the wall of the lift. "I _told_ him it might show side effects once it started working its way out of his system, and if he panics –"

Spock reaches around him and presses the comm-button. "Lieutenant Uhura, a complete report would be useful," he orders crisply.

A burst of static, and a small shriek in the background is their answer, and he turns another shade of pale. Then the Lieutenant's voice comes across the unit once more. _"Yes, Mr. Spock. Sir, we've tried to calm him down but he's just completely out of control!"_ Another small crash filters through the unit. _"I'm not even sure he knows where he is!"_

"Evacuate the Mess immediately, Uhura," he snaps, just as the lift doors open. "Get everybody out of there before he hurts someone, and – Spock, what the –"

But the Vulcan is already gone in a skinny blue blur, and he represses a low moan as he goes racing down the corridor after the First. Crewmen, displaying varying stages of shock and concern, hastily scuttle out of the Vulcan's thunderous path (if the situation weren't something out of a nightmare he'd laugh his head off at Ensign Thomas's bug-eyed expression as he's pushed unceremoniously out of the way) as they sprint down the corridor toward the Officers' Mess.

Scott meets them outside, his honest face betraying worry for his captain. "Sir, the Captain himself ordered me to get Security," the Engineer informs them while running a hand through his damp hair. "But…I dinna want to stun him unless there is no other way, you know that, Doctor."

"I know," he snaps, for there's no time for platitudes. "Anyone know what brought it on?"

"He fell asleep, Doctor," Uhura reports from behind Scott, and her beautiful face is tinged with both concern and empathy. "He had coffee and soup and was sitting all by himself in the furthest corner, sandwiched against the wall. We were all trying to be quiet so he could get some rest, and…"

"He began dreaming," Spock interjects suddenly, eyebrows twisted into a frown line, and the rumble of the low voice nearly sends him jumping three feet in the air with its close proximity. "He has only slept a total of four hours in the last sixty, due to his being concerned about the effects the kironide would have upon his unconscious mind and actions."

_What?_ "How the heck did you know that, and why wasn't I told he wasn't sleeping?" he demands hotly, glaring a nice neat hole in his commanding officer's insanely thick skull.

Before Spock can answer, though, something large and metallic thuds into the bulkhead nearby.

"Clear the corridor," he snaps on the instant, for damage control is their first priority after the Captain, and the Chief Engineer jumps to obey the order despite outranking him, "and tell Chapel to start someone running those sims we were working on to filter that kironide out of the bloodstream faster. We may need to try the actual procedures. Mr. Spock, let's – Spock!"

But the sound of the doors opening has already drowned out his last sentence, and he bolts after the Vulcan; if his hypothesis about Spock's mental state is correct, then the walking computer could do more damage than help if –

"Look out, Doctor!"

Spock's warning probably saves his skull; he flattens himself against the floor as a metal tray flies perilously close to his head. "Jim, what in the name of all that's sacred!"

The captain, he sees as he scrambles back to his feet, is huddled in the farthest corner of the room, on his knees with both hands clasped tightly in front of him, as if trying his desperate best to control the telekinetic force that had saved their lives and now endangers them all again. Kirk looks up at him, horrified, and he can see the wildness of sheer panic in the amber eyes. Somewhere behind him a bowl shatters against the wall, and then another, and the look deepens into terrified desperation.

He doesn't need any more words to know what the story is; exhausted beyond even James T. Kirk's outrageously high endurance, Jim had finally dozed off and soon dropped into REM sleep. Nightmares are a frequent part of the captain's sleep schedule following traumatic missions, and he's been known to speak out in his dreams or even sleepwalk on occasion if the vision were vivid enough. No doubt this one had been, and as a result he'd woken into utter chaos as the kironide wreaked havoc with his subconscious and thereby the room; panic had followed, and an inability to control the drug in his blood. Then too, he had already wondered if there might be drastic consequences for the high double-dosage, and it's no wonder that Jim can't control it properly now, even conscious.

Just as he reaches for a sedative from his medikit, a fork embeds itself in the wall, reverberating with a twang two inches from his hand. Wide-eyed, he can see why the captain is utterly terrified – he could easily kill one of his crew in this condition. He berates himself soundly for letting the man even step foot out of Sickbay, though in his defense Jim has shown no signs of…_this_, whatever it is, for the last three days.

He yanks the hypo from its resting place just in time to see Spock duck a flying chair and skid into a crouch before the cowering figure. What earnest words are being spoken he can't hear above the chaos, but he moves quicker than he ever thought possible when he sees the tiny bit of recognition and then the utter pleading in Jim's eyes. Two sets of hands move to interlock in an effort to anchor in the panic-induced storm the captain has inadvertently created. It's a gentle gesture, and a remarkably human one on Spock's part – but if he's right about the Vulcan…

"Spock, don't touch him!" he shouts over the clamor, hurtling over a pile of debris lying in the middle of the Mess floor. "Don't _touch_ him, d'you hear me?"

But it is too late; and the moment the contact is completed he knows the mistake has been made. The very air current thickens, darkens, and before he can even register what's happening one of the four-meter-long durasteel tables yanks free of its moorings and slams into a nearby wall, nearly going straight through the layers of tritanium with the force of its impalation, and leaves a scattering of bolts and other metallic flotsam in its wake.

He was right, but that knowledge doesn't help any of them now. Scott and two Security men burst in through the door at the sound of the destruction, stopping short in uncertainty at the sight of the two men on the floor, interlocked hands shaking with the unsuccessful effort of control. He sees from his peripheral the Chief Engineer reluctantly setting his phaser to Light Stun. Scott raises the weapon, not permitting an underling to attack his captain even in necessity –

"Hold it!" he protests above the pandemonium, and ducks another piece of flying debris to make a dive through the chaos toward his commanding officers. "We don't know how neural shock will react with that kironide. Spock, let go of him; you're not helping!" this last to the Vulcan, as he slides to a graceless stop beside the two men. "SPOCK!"

But Spock, eyebrows furrowed, doesn't acknowledge either his words or a hesitant but businesslike slap across the face, nor does the Vulcan even appear to hear the order, only kneels there with all the force of his strength physically pushing against the captain's kironide-accented grip. And so, he has no choice but to act upon his half-proven theory. He reluctantly depresses the contents of the hypospray through the gold sleeve and can only hope the sudden loss of contact won't send a telepathic whiplash across the shallow link.

He catches a brief glimpse of surprise and then almost pathetic gratitude from Jim before the captain's eyes flutter closed and he slumps, deadweight, against his First Officer.

Objects clatter floor-ward, the room goes deathly silent, and he meets the confused dark gaze of the Vulcan over the captain's limp head.

"I…do not understand what just occurred, Doctor," Spock speaks slowly, almost dazedly, and he knows he's got more than one problem on his hands now.

"I do," he sighs at last, and places one hand under the back of Jim's head for support as they lay him down on the debris-strewn floor. He sees Scott and the Security force parting ways to let Chapel through with a gurney, and so turns his attention back to the still-dazed Vulcan currently cradling the Captain's shoulders. "C'mon; let's get him to Sickbay. And then you and I, Mr. Spock, are going to have a little chat before I lock you in there with him for a while."


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: The Pursuit of Truth, II of III  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy, Kirk, various  
**Rating**: T just to be on the safe side  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for _Plato's Stepchildren _and mentions of all the baggage that episode entailed  
**Word Count**: 3209 (this part)  
**Summary**: Long long long overdue Haiti charity fic for **raebb4ever**, with the prompt _A fanfic that focuses on the aftermath of the episode "Plato's Stepchildren," specifically on Spock trying to cope with his emotional violation and his near uncontrollable anger over Parmen's actions towards Kirk. Having McCoy be included would be a nice bonus. Bonding and emotional healing, yay! I would like specific interaction between Kirk and Spock._

* * *

Jim is fine, just out cold from the neural inhibitor/sedative cocktail he's injected him with, and so he feels confident in turning him over to Chapel while he sees Spock – knowing that if Jim were conscious not only would he not blame him, but would actually insist upon it – to the counseling chair in his private office. Spock seems to have shaken off the confusion of earlier, but is far too quiet to be normal; he notes with wry amusement that this is the first time he's ever crossed Sickbay with the Vulcan and not entertained everyone within earshot with their usual bickering.

On the way to his office he passes a couple of lieutenants from Hydroponics who got in the way of the first onslaught of the captain's collapse (poor guys are now sporting minor burns from airborne coffees), and warns the nurse attending them to make sure Jim doesn't see the reports of any injuries incurred in the Officers' Mess without specific CMO authorization. The crewmen themselves are more worried than injured, only concerned for their captain, and thankfully the Mess was not even at quarter-capacity due to it being an off-hour for mealtimes. Scott and Uhura had been eating together there when the incident began and had successfully evacuated the room before anyone was seriously injured, a fact for which he is devoutly grateful and intends to say so in medical recommendation on their records.

But for now, he has one very not-perfectly-functional Vulcan to take care of, and though he gets the idea that eggshell-treading is in order that's not in his nature.

So he doesn't bother.

"Just what, _exactly_, did you think you were going to accomplish there?" he growls even as the Vulcan is barely seated in the chair across the desk.

Spock raises one eyebrow at him, obviously displeased, but he doesn't give the stream of logical explanations time to even form on the thin lips before he continues.

"Mr. Spock," he states directly, and leans forward across the desk to drive the point home, logically and medically soundly, that he knows he has to get the First to admit, "did you really think that trying to join minds with him, however shallowly, while you're still _boiling_ underneath all that so-called 'Vulcan control' would be a _logical_ thing to do?"

The eyebrow dips low over the darkened eyes, and the faint flicker of anger in them doesn't escape his notice. He knows better than to say anything about it, and Spock knows that he knows, which only makes it worse. "Doctor," is the reply, and darned if it isn't as cool and calm and utterly _wrong_ as it can possibly be, "you seem to be laboring under the misconception that I am still emotionally compromised from our interactions with the Platonians. I assure you, I am quite recovered and fully in control of my –"

"_Bull_," he interrupts rudely, and the Vulcan's expression tightens in a minute twitch. "And don't look at me like that; either we have this out here and now or I'm removing you from duty for endangering a Starfleet officer _and_ your captain," he snaps, slamming a hand down on the desk loud enough to send a stylus rattling off the side of a PADD.

The regulation way is the Vulcan way, he knows full well, plus he's just played the only card in his hand – the _Jim_ card – that will keep Spock seated instead of stalking out the door to file reports or meditate or practice the claws-against-wet-glass that is Vulcan classical music, or whatever he does in his off-duty time.

"Do you realize what you could have done, Spock? You could have seriously hurt someone – everyone, for that matter – including Jim!" he presses onward ruthlessly, noting the increase in pallor on the pale features before him. Good. If he can back Spock into a corner, he can get him to admit it, and that's half the battle right there. "Think about it logically, Spock," he adds, knowing the magic word will keep the Vulcan's attention. "You know the truth better than I do, and you know _exactly_ what happened back there."

He sees the slight softening of unhappiness in the harsh lines surrounding the tense mouth and eyes, and knows he's struck a raw nerve that won't heal on its own. Now is the time to stop the excision and attempt to close and bandage the wound. "I know it, and you know it, Spock," he says quietly as he sits down, while extending one hand to rest on the desk a few inches from the tense blue-clad arm. "You just can't admit it to me or yourself, can you?" Spock tenses beside his hand, but doesn't move away, and so he continues, dropping his voice to a more gentle tone. "You are Vulcan, Mr. Spock, and so what you're…_feeling_, is inexcusable and therefore cannot exist."

Silence. Total, absolute, utter silence.

That's good, because it sure beats a rebuttal in perfect clipped diction, explaining how utterly illogical his diagnosis is.

"Am I right?" he asks softly, all animosity vanishing at the sight of the abject misery evident in every line of the Vulcan's tense posture and features.

Spock is a Vulcan, he is aware enough of that to bring it up in every conversation possible as a device to further arguments – but he also knows that Spock never looks as completely Vulcan as he does when he's at his most vulnerable. It is in human nature, and Vulcan nature, apparently, to overcompensate in other areas for an area which is considered to be a weakness; that's a medical principle. And he knows, just as Jim knows, that the only time when Spock really looks totally emotionless, pure logic and pure Vulcan, is when he's anything but. And as Chief Medical Officer aboard this ship, he's always prepared, when that absolutely expressionless mask goes up, to do what he has to, to crack through the façade.

What he's _not_ prepared for, is for that mask to crack involuntarily, as it does now with a suddenness that shocks him nearly speechless.

Spock's expression morphs from tranquil annoyance into barely-concealed shame, right in front of his stunned eyes, and the transformation is so open and obvious that he can't imagine how he'd ever have said even in jest that the race doesn't feel a thing. The dark head bows in what he knows is a gesture of deep humiliation, but before it does he catches one slight glimpse of those intense alien eyes – and they're absolutely, desolately _sad_. There's no other word to describe it; he's never seen Spock look so miserable…heck, he's never seen a _human_ look so miserable!

"Aw, geez, Spock," he find himself muttering (and no, he is not a 'softie', thank you very much) into the hand he's planted his face against just now. Dealing with emotionally-distressed Vulcans is Jim's area of expertise, not his; but if Jim is going to fix this then he at least has to lay the groundwork, and so he sighs and moves his gaze back to the bowed head before him. "Spock, there's absolutely nothin' wrong with feeling anger at someone who, for lack of a better term…" Red-hot anger blossoms deep in his heart at the remembrance, and he no longer wonders how and why Spock feels at the moment, "…violated your mind and emotions," he finishes as tactfully as he can.

He's never seen a Vulcan _twitch_ before.

"It's a double violation," he adds, resisting the urge to impale his fist against the nearest object to hand that isn't living tissue. "And you've every right in the world to be angry. It's perfectly understandable, Spock."

"Not for a Vulcan, it is not, Doctor," is the low reply, though even he can tell it's not meant as more than an autonomic response to his statement.

"_Even_ for a Vulcan, it _is_," he retorts. "For you, that's just as bad as being physically violated would be for a human, and don't give me that look – you forget I've done a lot of studying on Vulcan physiology since M'Benga came aboard. Don't bother denying it. You're so angry, so filled with utter _rage_, that you can barely see straight – even after three days," he finishes with due caution, aware of the flaring eyes that shoot upward to meet his cooler ones. "Aren't you."

It is a statement, not a question, and they both know it. For a moment only deathly silence wraps about the room, and then his patient's spine seems to lose its rigidity, surrendering to the contours of the chair as Spock visibly slumps – not caring any longer if the human can see his reaction.

"To deny that which exists is…illogical, and in this case would be medically foolhardy," the Vulcan replies, and though the tone is expressionless it's too much so. The dark eyes dart back to his face, this time curiosity for the moment quenching the fire burning deep within. "How did you know, Doctor?"

He sighs, not quite smiling, for it really isn't amusing but at the same time the cluelessness of this particular friend – odd, but he somehow has become one, though he'd die before admitting it, _ever_ – of his is adorably awkward. "You are very particular in your word choice as a general rule, Mr. Spock," he informs the Vulcan, resuming the title for sake of giving the semblance of normality. "On the planet, you asked Jim and me if we felt anger toward the Platonians. When we replied that heck yes, we did, you told us that we needed to release it."

An eyebrow quirks upward as the scenario obviously replays in eidetic memory, and then sudden realization brings it crashing down again as the Vulcan's eyes close with remembrance.

He lowers his voice slightly, the same way he would try to soothe a hysterical crewman or a wounded animal. "But you said something very peculiar, Mr. Spock. You said you were going to master yours. Not _release_ it, _master_ it."

"Control and compartmentalization is the Vulcan way, Doctor," Spock replies, and his tone is painfully stiff, "and I believe I did quite enough 'releasing' of emotion while on that planet."

"I agree on both counts, Spock," he answers with a nod. "But," he continues, meeting the dark gaze without reservation, "the point is, that you _haven't_ mastered it." Silence is his only admittance, but it's enough, and he moves on. "That little fiasco in the Mess just now proves it, Spock. Jim was out of control, and when you added your anger to the force of the kironide, however deeply buried the emotion was, the combined power of both almost took out half of C Deck."

Dark sage is creeping into the stark features now, and he's glad to see it even if it means Spock is embarrassed; at least it's better than that sallow complexion the hobgoblin's been sporting for three days.

"I have been…remiss in my methods of countering the effects of the incidents on Platonius," is the low confession, delivered over tightly clasped hands, now resting upon the very edge of the cool desk-top. Spock makes eye contact with him again, and he isn't surprised to see the fires burning yet again, deep and silent and deadly in that alien gaze. "I find myself quite…unable to relinquish the primal urge to retaliate for what nearly transpired on that planet, Doctor."

"Unable, Spock?" he whispers, gently as he can – and he's sure he's either going to break the final barrier in the next sentence, or else get decked a solid one as only Vulcan muscle mass can.

Either way, the gamble's worth it.

He swallows and takes the plunge. "Unable to relinquish the rage, Spock…or _unwilling_ to?"

He's glad that there's a desk between them, for a few instants at least, because he's pretty sure Spock's hands just put a serious dent in the edge of it. "Doctor, you overstep yourself," the Vulcan snaps, and thrusts his chair backward in preparation to leave.

"Do I?" he retorts, knowing just how far to push this without harming either of them. Spock turns away, paces a tight, narrow line to the far wall, and stands there inspecting absolutely nothing while he folds his arms and waits.

After one long, interminably long minute, nothing has happened, and so he moves cautiously across the room. "Spock, whether you think it's proper or not, it exists, and you just said it was illogical to deny that which has been proven to exist," he says from a safe distance behind the Vulcan. "And believe me, Mr. Spock, it's perfectly normal to be angry with someone who has violated you; that's a proven medical fact. I understand –"

A bitter sound that could only be a sardonic Vulcan laugh startles his mouth into snapping closed, and his CO turns slowly around to face him, a self-deprecating grimace twisting his angular features. "No," Spock breathes slowly through his nose after speaking, as if fighting for control. "No, Doctor McCoy, you do _not_ understand."

"Then tell me," he says simply, and no matter how irritating this pointy-eared database can be he hopes he can tell that the physician truly means it.

Spock takes a measured breath. "Doctor, the embarrassment of losing control of my emotions was nothing, a minor annoyance that was quite easily rectified in my mind even before the Captain had defeated Parmen. The fact that I was used as an object of amusement, too, was of no consequence. As a Vulcan, I – there are certain mental disciplines that enable us to cope with mental transgressions of that sort; and you are aware that I have endured such before with no lasting effects."

He nods, and somehow knows to not say anything and ruin the moment of revelation just yet.

Spock seems relieved at his lack of commentary, and paces a tight circle before jolting to a sudden stop immediately before him, scant inches from his nose. "Doctor, I am not angry at myself for being controlled, as I am well aware your next psychologist's question will be in this informal examination. There was no choice in the matter, and it would be illogical to feel guilt where none is merited; both Nurse Chapel and I have discussed this to a successful resolution. Nor am I angry at the invasion of my mental and emotional faculties, to be used for crude amusement. None of these, Doctor, are sufficient explanation as to why I am unable to control this…irrational urge to do bodily harm to Parmen."

He's a xenobiologist, not a psychologist, but living on this ship with this crew has made him rather an expert in that latter field as well. This is cruel, but he has to say it even if it means driving a wedge between them that can't be fixed very easily.

"How about the fact that you were absolutely scared out of your mind for a few minutes there, with Jim's face just lookin' up at you as you were about to seriously hurt him?"

He's never before seen a Vulcan look as if he's been punched right in the stomach – lower abdomen, since his ribs extend lower than a human's – but now he has, and he knows he's found the armor-chink and sent a flaming dart right through it.

"You've already killed him once, you know, due to circumstances you couldn't control – and they resurrected that whole nightmare for you in front of everyone."

"Doctor, I…" Spock falls utterly silent, for once unable to formulate a response to that, and he knows he has to move in now before the Vulcan closes himself off again to the world and everyone.

"Spock," he sighs, and moves closer to the motionless figure standing stiffly in front of him. "I told you, I do understand – better than you do, because _I'm_ human and humans _feel_ a sight more than you do."

Remembrances of Parmen's atrocities slice his memory from top to bottom with their horror, and he closes his eyes for a minute against the onslaught. And all he had been was an innocent bystander! The only wonder at the moment was why Spock hadn't beat someone to a pulp yet (or at least destroyed his computer like he did that once, years ago).

Spock is regarding him with understandable wariness, no doubt afraid that he is about to turn this into another of their verbal sparring-sessions and poke fun at his humanity showing. This isn't the time or place, and he besides he knows better than to do that when the Vulcan is at his most fragile.

"Spock…look," he tries again after a pause, "just…hear me out, okay? I know you're not supposed to feel any of this and all that but just listen." A slight nod, and he can see that despite the tension of the situation Spock's eyes are watching him with interest, and what probably is supposed to be trust (heaven have mercy!). "It's a perfectly normal reaction to feel greater anger over injustice being done to someone you care for, rather than over a personal offense," he explains, feeling slightly foolish as he does but plugging away nonetheless.

"I…have observed this phenomenon before, Doctor."

"Of course you have, because it's – forgive me," he interrupts himself with a hint of a smile, and he can see from the relaxing features of his conversant that Spock is starting to feel more comfortable with the topic, "but it's _human nature_. And much's I hate to claim you, Spock, you _are_ half-human."

He receives a miffed purse of lips as answer to that and chuckles lightly, risking his neck (and reputation) by reaching out to place a light hand on the shoulder of the rumpled blue uniform. Spock stiffens but does not draw away, and he squeezes gently. "I can't tell you how to master it, Mr. Spock," he says matter-of-factly, "but I can tell you I understand it."

"Do you truly, Doctor?" The tone is almost wistful in its open inability to comprehend the emotion, and he smiles, pointing both of them toward the door of the office.

"Yes," he answers simply, allowing a smile at the uncertain glance he receives from the corner of the Vulcan's eye. "You see, Spock, I care an awful lot about Captain James Tiberius Kirk. And whatever that translates to in that Vulcan brain of yours, I know you do too."

At first he's afraid he really did overstep himself there, because the silence that falls could choke the life out of a man with sheer nervous tension, but then he hears a soft exhalation of breath from beside him, and a low murmur. "As you said, Doctor. To deny what has been proven to exist is not logical."

"You bet your pointed ears it isn't," he agrees, grinning over at the annoyed look he receives for his quip. He risks health and safety to give the Vulcan a gentle push toward the door, but meets no resistance. "Now go wait for him to wake up, and I don't want to see either of you until you've hashed this all out with him. Go on, _get_."


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: The Pursuit of Truth, III of III  
**Characters**: Spock, McCoy, Kirk, various  
**Rating**: T just to be on the safe side  
**Warnings**: Spoilers for _Plato's Stepchildren _and mentions of all the baggage that episode entailed  
**Word Count**: 4509 (this part)  
**Summary**: Long long long overdue Haiti charity fic for **raebb4ever**, with the prompt _A fanfic that focuses on the aftermath of the episode "Plato's Stepchildren," specifically on Spock trying to cope with his emotional violation and his near uncontrollable anger over Parmen's actions towards Kirk. Having McCoy be included would be a nice bonus. Bonding and emotional healing, yay! I would like specific interaction between Kirk and Spock._

* * *

It is another forty-seven minutes, fifteen seconds before Jim finally begins to stir; McCoy's potion was meant to keep him unconscious long enough for his body to adjust from the attack and then somewhat groggy for another few hours afterward to prevent a relapse.

The sight of someone usually so vibrantly alive lying still – so very still! – upon the crimson Sickbay pillow is discomfiting in the extreme, and yet he is grateful to have the time to reconstruct a flimsy mental shield. The captain may possibly need his aid when he awakens, and he will not risk causing further damage than that which he already has.

Granted, James Kirk appears to be the only human alive who can quite easily dissolve any barrier he erects, but at least the semblance of one may protect them both for a short time.

The shield is barely in place before the pale face on the pillow twitches, the golden head tossing to one side as a mumbled sigh escapes. In a very human slip, his lips quirk in unaccountable fondness; it is a standing joke in the entire Medical division that James T. Kirk hates doctors and Sickbay so much that he fights them all every step of the way, sneaking out of the ward the instant he can stand unassisted or battling whatever medication he's been given, tooth and nail.

He watches silently, for he knows better than to trust his voice at the moment, as the captain fights his way out from under the neural inhibitor McCoy administered an hour ago. Finally the gold-green eyes open, but they are cloudy, the color of Arcturian moss now; a sure sign that he is still quite groggy from the medication.

Still, they apparently are lucid enough to rove slowly around the room before returning to fasten on his face as he stands beside the bed, looking down at its occupant.

Jim smiles slightly, and slowly, painfully, reaches up a trembling hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "What hit me, a shuttlecraft?" is the muffled greeting voiced around the clenched fingers, and again he marvels at the human tendency to relieve tension with poor humor.

He does not bother to answer, for he knows the captain does not expect him to, and in a moment the human's hand flops limply back to the thermal blanket that is pulled up to his chest. Jim closes his eyes tightly for a moment and then re-opens them with a grimace. "Bones must have me on the good stuff," he murmurs. "I can barely move a muscle."

"Given the now-unpredictable effects of the kironide being filtered from your blood, I would say that is the wisest course of action, Captain," he replies, quite pleased that his voice is entirely expressionless; he has succeeded somewhat in regaining control.

Hazel eyes squint up at him in silence for eight-point-five seconds. Then the captain sighs, head relaxing lifelessly into the pillow. "Spock, will you sit down?"

"I should prefer to –"

"Please?"

He has never been able to refuse that look, though he cannot explain the phenomenon any more than he can resist the too-large eyes and beseeching countenance, and so with a tolerant nod he seats himself on the chair next to the bio-bed.

Jim huffs a tired chuckle. "_On_ the bed, Mister. I can't even turn my head to see you, that's how much meds Bones has in my system right now."

He raises an eyebrow, for the situation will no doubt end up to be highly awkward, but it is not logical to carry out a conversation where one cannot even see the conversant's eyes.

Therefore, he perches on the edge of the bed next to the captain's legs, and receives a weary smile as thanks for his concession. For a moment they sit there silently, simply looking at each other. He can see now more visible signs of the captain's utter exhaustion, and reproaches himself for not calling the man on his self-care deprivation before the crisis of earlier took place. He has been so distraught himself that he has been avoiding the captain for that very reason; he was and is in no condition to speak with the only man aboard who can slip past any defense he puts up.

Today's incident is the result of those actions, and now he regrets not making at least a small effort to improve the captain's state of well-being. The human's eyes, so usually sparkling with mischief, are dulled, and not just from the medication. That one unruly curl that gives its owner such trouble in the mornings, he knows from experience with their shared bathroom accommodations, has long since flopped limply over the lined forehead, and he has rarely seen the man look as utterly drained as he does right now.

He suddenly realizes he has been intensely studying his commanding officer's features, and that said commander is looking up at him with combined amusement and concern.

"I take it," Jim says slowly, as if the very effort of speaking is taxing to his strength, "that since Bones has to know I'm awake from these monitors and he hasn't come in here to chase you away, he thinks we need to do some heart-to-heart-ing?"

He attempts to summon up the energy to feign ignorance at the idiom, but has not the strength to do so. Truth is all he can cling to now, and what must be done must be done; that is only logical. "I believe the doctor is more concerned with my state of mind than yours, Captain," he replies honestly. "In two more days the kironide will be removed from your system completely, and in the meantime he has implemented measures to ensure that you can rest comfortably, without fearing its uncontrollable effects."

"Problem solved, then, eh?" A slightly bitter laugh falls from the pale lips, and his eyes flick back from the over-bed monitors to the face below. "Somehow I don't think it's that simple, Spock."

He raises an eyebrow in a wordless question, and Kirk's pinched features soften. "Don't look at me like that," the captain whispers. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but if I know Bones he won't let us out of here until we do."

"I believe his exact words were, 'if you come out of there in the next two hours, I will jump you with a hypo of Rigellian Black Plague,' or something to that effect."

The statement has the desired result, for the human laughs, his fingers twitching restlessly against the blanket. "And how long have you been here, Commander?" Kirk inquires, eyes lighting up with mischief to accompany the playful usage of his title.

"Fifty-eight minutes, sixteen-point-three seconds."

"Mm," is the expressive reply, and he is pleased to see the captain shift his head on the pillow; obviously the drug is still keeping his neural impulses to a minimum but it is not paralyzing. "So you're stuck with me for another hour."

"One hour, one minute and ten seconds, sir."

"Yes, yes." A pale hand rises an inch off the covers in a weak wave, and he forces down an inexcusable desire to grasp it, lend his own strength to it. Control. _Control_. "We might as well begin at the beginning, then," Jim is saying, and he wrenches his attention back to the subject at hand.

"Affirmative. Doctor McCoy has explained the events that transpired in the Officers' Mess an hour ago," he answers, reciting mechanically what had happened directly before and afterwards. "I regret…that my attempt to offer aid only complicated matters, Captain."

Jim looks incredulously at him, and then sighs, his eyes turning that shade of golden green that usually indicates affection and amusement. "It wasn't your fault. I was…" the man trails off, face flushing slightly with obvious embarrassment. Finally, though, the captain looks back at him. "I was terrified, Spock," is the tense whisper, and he feels an answering tightness in the vicinity of his lungs. "And," Jim continues, and his skin prickles with the feeling that the human is speaking of something entirely different from the incident in the Mess, "you know Vulcan philosophy states that fear is the most dangerous of all emotions."

That the captain is well-read on Vulcan philosophy does not surprise him, for he already knows Kirk has studied many such pieces of his culture in an effort to find mutual topics of interest. What does surprise him, however, is that Jim has so efficiently driven to the heart of the matter.

"Dangerous because it usually leads to anger, which is the second most dangerous of all the passions," the captain adds softly, and he nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels the slight brush of fingertips across his sleeve – no telepathic contact, for Jim never touches his skin without warning him by either verbal or body language, but contact nonetheless.

"Captain…"

"Spock," the man reproves gently.

"Jim," he amends, though the retreat into formality would be of reassurance in such uncertain waters as these. "I…do not know…" he hesitates, unable – no, not unwilling, simply ignorant – to put any of this…_madness_, into words.

The captain does not seem to mind, only nods understandingly. "I felt your anger," the human says quietly, and he closes his eyes in shame. "In the Mess, I knew immediately what it was. I've never felt anything so…intense, in all my life."

"I ask pardon, Captain; I had not intended –"

"Spock."

He opens his eyes again at the slightly exasperated tone. "Captain?"

"Shut up and let me finish?"

"Aye, sir."

Kirk smiles at him, a real smile this time, and continues. "I wasn't asking for you to apologize, Spock; you know you never have to apologize for anything with me."

This is true; Jim made it clear long ago that he would never ask more of the Vulcan than he could give, and would never require Spock change himself to being more or less human – or Vulcan – than he was. _You must be who you are_, the captain had said earnestly, _and if you ever change part of that then you don't have to apologize for it._ That acceptance, unconditional and unswerving, was one of the many qualities that seemed to act as a magnet between them; he could not explain his attachment to this man in so short a time as they had served together, nor did he wish to destroy the beauty of what existed by attempting to explain it rationally.

Jim watches him as he remembers all this, and their eyes meet again, giving his shattered control a bit more courage than before. Besides, if he can discuss this with McCoy then surely he can discuss it with Jim. "Captain, I cannot explain my unaccountable anger toward Parmen and the Platonians," he admits with great reluctance, though it is relieving to be able to simply state the facts. "I yet feel great anger toward them, and am unable to fully master it or control it as I must."

"Maybe," Jim replies after a short pause, and again the fingers gently brush back and forth against his sleeve, a soothing and comforting gesture, "maybe it's because anger's just the result, Spock, not the problem."

He blinks, for that has never occurred to him, unaccustomed as he is to recognizing emotions of any kind. "Sir?"

"Anger is just a result of a stimulus, Spock, that's a principle of psychology."

Responses and stimuli are scientific variables; those he can certainly comprehend. His eyes must betray his interest, for Jim's light up as they watch him.

"You're a scientist, Science Officer," Kirk quips with a small grin, "so you should know that reactions are a natural occurrence to the appropriate stimuli. You can't change a reaction unless you change the stimuli or the conditions of an experiment."

"That is…eminently logical," he agrees slowly.

"So what you're _feeling_ is perfectly logical," Kirk adds with a slow shrug of what are probably sore shoulders. "Anger is a response to the stimulus you were provided with. The result isn't the problem, Spock."

"Then what is?" he asks, not caring if his utter helplessness filters through the words. "What then is the reason for my inability to control this…primal rage toward those who committed the offense?"

"Have you considered the possibility that maybe, since the root of your anger isn't a logical thing, that you can't use logical methods to solve it?" Kirk asks gently, and the lull of the words softens their horrifying implications. "The root of your anger is another human emotion, Spock; and because it is, don't you think maybe you'll have to use human methods to fix this?"

He has gone quite still, for every instinct screams against what is being suggested, however gently, and yet somewhere deep inside he knows the captain is correct – he usually is, in these matters.

"There are several things that can trigger anger, Spock," Kirk begins, and he wonders anew at the patience this man has always taken to help him at least understand, if not comprehend, the incomprehensible where humanity is concerned. The fingers still suddenly on his arm, a warm pressure against the sleeve of his uniform. "One of them is fear. But…_love_ can trigger both of those. And that's your real problem, isn't it? Don't answer that, you don't have to," the man adds quickly when he would have instinctively denied any such thing – the very idea is both horrifying and terribly alluring. "But you've forgotten that I saw into your mind for a minute there before McCoy knocked me out. You don't have to agree with me, you don't have to even accept it – but just remember you can't hide Truth in a mind-contact."

He closes his eyes to conceal whatever this too-perceptive individual is sure to read from them, for the captain is entirely correct in all particulars. He is nearly as aghast at the idea that his uncontrolled anger and desire to protect is only part of the problem, as he is to find that the solution only indicates that there is a much deeper problem at the heart of the matter.

And the worst of it is the fact that he cannot, logically, find a way to deny the facts – nor can he find a reason to reject the regard he has for this man as in any way harmful to his training as a Vulcan, other than these infrequent lapses in control.

Again, he is torn between what he knows somehow to be right, and what every cell in his brain is screaming is terribly wrong. It is a battle that never ends, and he will never be able to reconcile both sides to a balanced equation, not with radical factors such as his regard for James Kirk to upset the scale at every turn.

The minutes pass, and he says nothing, makes no move, remains perfectly still in an effort to reconcile himself to finding a suitable solution. The conclusion is inescapable; the Captain is correct. His anger is the result of a more potent problem, and one that cannot be solved in a logical and rational manner. Some other method must be instigated.

He looks up finally, and is shocked to see Kirk's eyes glimmering slightly with what must be emotion as the man watches him closely. He has not even the time to voice his concern when the answer comes.

"I'm so sorry," the captain breathes, and slowly reaches up to massage his left temple – a sure sign of an approaching headache.

He raises an eyebrow, completely mystified as to why the human is in such distress and feels the need to apologize for an unknown offense.

"Spock, I'm so sorry that you have to do this all the time," Kirk elaborates, his voice more steady after a swallow. "It can't possibly be easy for you to deal with us day after day, to find a happy medium between Vulcan and human under normal circumstances; and when something like what they did to you happens, I can't imagine how hard it is to swing the scales back into balance."

His brows knit as the words resonate slowly within him, for it never occurred to him that anyone would ever realize how difficult every moment of his life was; attempting to be human enough to satisfy his friends – yes, friends – but remaining Vulcan enough to not shame his heritage. This man again has somehow wormed his way past all his carefully-constructed barriers to hit the weakest point of his shield.

And somehow, he is more pleased than alarmed at the idea.

"The result…is quite worth the effort, Jim," he manages to say with perfect equanimity, for that too is Truth. "Even with such _annoying_ setbacks as the events of three days ago," he adds, and sees a spark of humor remove the last traces of sympathetic grief from the human's expression.

"I thought Vulcans didn't feel annoyance?" Kirk asks with a grin, and the grip on his sleeve tightens for a moment.

He allows a small sigh to escape through his nose, knowing it will both amaze the human and lift his clearly despondent spirits. "They supposedly do not feel anger as well, Captain; obviously there is a faulty variable in those conclusions," he answers ruefully, and the room fills with delighted laughter.

Satisfied, he relaxes slightly, and for a few minutes they relapse into a more comfortable silence. But there is still a problem to be solved, a solution to be found, and so after steeling his resolve and his mental shields he looks back to his captain, only to find that the human's eyes are already upon him.

"Go ahead, Spock," Kirk encourages quietly.

"May I inquire, captain, as to the human method of…releasing anger?" There, it is out, and though the idea of asking for such advice is equal parts abhorrent and daring it must be asked if a conclusion is to be reached.

"Mm. That's…not an easy one to answer," is the thoughtful reply. "Are you wanting the usual reaction, or mine personally, or…?"

"Both," he decides, for he must have all data in order to properly make an analysis.

"Well, there are various methods…it depends on the individual," Kirk muses. "Some people take anger and stress out on others either physically or by snapping at them; I have that second problem, you and McCoy know that."

He acknowledges the rueful confession with only a nod, neither condemning nor excusing, and the captain continues.

"Sometimes you just have to punch something, a wall or a punching bag or a pillow. The most common solution for a civilian would be to just go get drunk somewhere and start a fight."

"That would accomplish nothing."

"Except to blow off enough steam that you don't take your anger out on the people you love," is the quiet rejoinder, and he ponders that piece of information for a moment. He has frequently been disgusted at the value humans place upon such frivolous and crude activities, but now the actions do make a sort of distorted sense to his mind.

"None of these methods are sensible for a Starfleet officer, however," he is compelled to point out, and the faint smile in the hazel eyes lets him know Kirk never intended them as serious suggestions. "How then do _you_ deal with your human emotion, Captain?"

The captain's lined forehead furrows even more in concentration, and he watches the flickering of thought-patterns show through in the expressive eyes before him for a full minute. Then something illuminates them from deep inside, and to his surprise Jim does not speak at first, but slowly holds up a hand, palm outward and all five fingers spread.

It takes a moment and some gentle, silent coaxing (and strengthening of his mental shields in preparation), but he finally reaches out to mirror the gesture – having no idea what the captain intends but knowing Jim would never do anything he thought might be harmful to his well-being. He is not disappointed in his trust, and is relieved to find that the human bypasses the more sensitive fingertips, careful to not touch them, and closes the gap in a tight grasp, fingers now interlocked with his and palms pressed together as they had been in the Mess ninety minutes and twelve seconds ago.

He keeps the lightest of finger-pressure upon the back of the human's hand, not wishing to disturb or be disturbed by the thoughts whirling through the intricately multifarious mind that is Captain James T. Kirk, and only gains a hazy sense of and Kirk's faint worry that he is carrying this lesson too far, making it too personal.

Far from it; if anyone can aid him in understanding it is this man, and he knows it; and to refuse expert aid is illogical. He gives an encouraging nudge, and Jim smiles. "You were trying to help me in the Officers' Mess, Spock," the human says quietly, squeezing their hands together with a careful gentleness. "Do the same thing now – push as hard as you can against my grip."

Mystified, he raises an incredulous eyebrow, and Kirk's sandy brows knit in mock sternness. "Do it, Mr. Spock. And don't stop until I tell you to."

"Captain, my strength is three times that of a human. If I should hurt you –"

"You won't."

"As you wish," he acquiesces, with well-founded reluctance, and applies forward pressure.

The captain grunts, and he is surprised at the strength of the force that meets his despite the neural inhibitor the human has been dosed with; he presses harder, and their hands move several inches back toward the pillow. Jim redoubles his efforts, straining visibly to push against his hand, but he can sense enough from the contact to know to not stop.

Finally his knuckles and the back of Kirk's hand brush against the crisp coolness of the pillow, and he releases the pressure instantly. The captain melts back into the soft cushion, breathing hard and sweating a little, but sighs in an expression of contentment that he is entirely at a loss to understand.

"Captain, I do not see the purpose of your actions."

Kirk smiles, and the entire room seems to brighten in the glow that this small human seems to carry around with him at all times. "You asked me how I deal with my human emotions, Spock. You know what I do?"

"If I did, I would not have –"

"Spock!" The tone is filled with exasperation, and he falls silent to only listen.

The captain grins up at him, and holds up his hand again. He hesitantly repeats the action of earlier, applying gentle forward pressure and feeling the smaller human bones give way to his demands and be forced backward.

Suddenly Kirk stops the movement, stilling his hand in mid-air, and when he speaks his voice is sober, gentle, and thrumming with an undercurrent of respect and awe that is reinforced by the skin contact.

"Spock, when I have to deal with something like what happened on Platonius, I do one thing," comes the quiet answer, and he leans forward to listen earnestly. Jim's eyes lighten with a welcome smile. "I look over at you on the Bridge or wherever we are, and I know that whatever happens, I'll always have someone _stronger_ than I am to share it with me."

_Trustaffectionwarmthloyalty..._ He yanks his hand away as if it has been burned, as an uncontrolled burst of emotional energy floods through the contact – not unpleasant, but unexpected – and then Jim gives him a look of deep apology. He is still speechless from the conversation and the contact, and so can say nothing to counter his friend as the human continues, somewhat shyly.

"Haven't you ever wondered about how I seem to still enjoy losing to you in chess or sparring or whatever? Why I don't mind when people try to intimidate me and I have to have my Vulcan shadow scare them off?"

"I…had assumed it was merely another facet of the illogicality of human nature," he manages, and is surprised to find his voice steady.

The human laughs, a short sharp sound of amusement. "No, Spock. It's because I would rather lose to you and know you're _there_ to lose to, to know I don't _have_ to be the stronger or smarter or more experienced one all the time, and that it's okay to be the weaker one, the one that loses."

Such a sentiment makes no logical sense, and he cannot comprehend it; but it does seem to fit with the captain's behaviors.

"Then," he muses slowly, attempting to connect the links into a comprehensible chain of rationality, "you deal with your human emotion by finding someone stronger than you are to take…comfort in?"

"Comfort, reassurance, the knowledge that the world's not ending and we _can_ do this, whatever you want to call it – yes, Spock." Kirk's eyes glint softly. "You know that in physics, the more points of contact that are made, the greater the force that can be exerted upon them, and the same thing applies with people. Burdens shared are only half as hard to handle, and if one person has to take more than his share of the weight…"

"If that one is the stronger, then that is only logical," he finishes with a curt nod of understanding.

When the captain speaks again a moment later, his tone is light and teasing, but the expression upon his face is sincere and full of open concern. "So tell me, Science Officer, what extrapolations can you make from that discussion of methodology that'll enable you to deal with your…emotional shortcomings?"

And it makes absolute sense now, a complete and reasonable chain of Truth – shown to him by, of all beings, a human.

His father would be horrified. He is honored.

"I believe the logical conclusion, Jim," he replies quietly, and extends his hand for the third time, "would be that I must find someone who is _emotionally_ stronger than I and ask for his assistance."

Cool fingers interlock with his and squeeze slightly. 

"Then you solved your own problem a half-hour ago; didn't you, Commander?"

He relaxes the tension in his jaw, knowing that it will give the illusion of a small smile to this incredibly complex human, who deserves at least that much from him now. "So it would seem, Jim."

For two-point-five seconds, only the soft chirping of the monitor over Kirk's tousled head fills the room, and yet the silence is pleasant, not at all awkward as it has been the last three days.

Then –

"Aww…" The moment is spoiled by a very tired, and therefore very thick, Southern drawl from behind them.

Five seconds later, Leonard McCoy flees the room, cackling his head off and ducking the kironide-propelled pillow that hurtles after him with enough force to knock him off his feet.


End file.
